


Connected by a Thread

by canistakahari



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, Gags, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Safewords, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 23:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21187994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: Sometimes, when Bucky gets home late, they play a very specific game.





	Connected by a Thread

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you just gotta indulge yourself, you know? there's no other excuse for this. thanks to my good pal [starsandgraces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces/pseuds/starsandgraces) for the beta <3
> 
> the drunk sex tag is used because bucky has had one or two drinks at the beginning of the story and steve is sober.

Steve wakes abruptly to a muted _thud_ and a hissed, “Fuck!” 

He lies still, shivering under the thin blanket, and listens with mounting irritation as Bucky stumbles around the apartment, muttering to himself and stifling bubbly giggles. Caught between twin desires to sit up and cuss Bucky out or stubbornly ignore him and pretend to sleep through truly clumsy attempts to keep quiet, Steve ultimately stews in silence.

As Steve works himself up into a real lather, Bucky finishes washing up and stripping off his clothes, the weight and heat of him flopping heavily onto the bed. He smells strongly of booze, and smoke, and sweat. It’s not unpleasant, but everything about him right now seems carefully calculated to drive Steve batty. He’s even breathing too loud. 

“Fuck,” repeats Bucky, muffled by his pillow. “Sorry, sorry—”

“You don’t shut your trap right this instant, Buck, I’m booting you onto the fire escape,” Steve says fiercely. 

“Aw, Steve.” Bucky presses up against Steve’s back, slinging his arm over Steve’s waist. The tip of his nose, when it brushes against the nape of Steve’s neck, is very cold. “It’s thirty degrees out.”

“You know that I have to get up early,” Steve hisses back, determined not to soften. “You got any idea what time it is?”

“Late,” says Bucky, with another deep, shuddering breath. 

“Sure is, pal. Quit snuffling at me like an overgrown dog.”

“Don’t be sore at me,” Bucky mumbles, the hint of a whine surfacing in his voice. “Said I was sorry.” His lips are warmer than his nose, but Steve’s annoyance just spikes in response to the drunken affection.

“Don’t give me so many reasons to be sore, then.” Steve squirms, more and more awake with every passing second. 

Bucky keeps trying to cuddle him, though, both arms wrapped snug around Steve, damp breath puffing against Steve’s neck. “Just go back to sleep. You’ll forget I even woke you tomorrow.”

Steve grits his teeth, fed up. “Bucky,” he says sharply. “Roll over.”

He’s not expecting Bucky to obey, at least not right away, and definitely not without a chorus of grumbling and complaining. At Steve’s tone, though, he stiffens, makes a soft, hurt sound, and releases Steve. There’s a bit of a struggle as he rolls over on the spot, putting his back to Steve. Even without looking at him, Steve can tell that he’s sulking, curled up with the hard curve of his spine bumping up against Steve’s back. 

Bucky mutters something under his breath, mostly too quiet for Steve to hear; it sounds a little like, ‘you’re a prick.’

Steve scowls into the darkness. “What was that?”

“I said, ‘you’re _pretty_,” Bucky says loudly. 

“You crash in here after midnight, reeking, and _I’m_ the pr—” Steve cuts off, sputtering. 

“So mad you can’t even speak,” Bucky says, his laughter shaking them both. 

“_You_ could do without speaking,” retorts Steve. “Asked you to shut up already.”

“Or what? You’ll grab me by the ear and drag me out onto the fire escape?” demands Bucky. “As punishment for my great crime of tripping over the shoes you left by the door?”

Steve opens his mouth, ready to really tear into an argument, but something pops and fizzles in his brain. He stops and counts to ten. He’s angry, sure; the bright bloom of Steve’s indignation always burns hot at the very core of him, ready to be unleashed. It’s justified. He’s tired, his back aches, Bucky’s hogging the blanket, and there’s a draft floating in that’s chilling Steve’s toes. Steve wants to be asleep. He wants Bucky to be quiet. He recognizes arguing _with_ Bucky won’t make this happen any time soon. 

“Cat got your tongue?” mutters Bucky. 

“Shut _up_,” snaps Steve, exasperated in a way that feels as though it should be more familiar to Bucky than to him. After all, it’s Steve’s who pokes and prods and can’t let things go, not Bucky. When Steve gets single-minded about something, Bucky tends to give up on deterring the inevitable outcome and settles into crisis management instead. He _yields_. 

This is a bitter mirroring Steve does not appreciate. He didn’t cause this, dammit. He hasn’t got anything to be sorry for. 

Even with his back to Steve, Bucky radiates sulky disdain. Steve props himself up on his elbow and rolls over, aggressively spooning up behind Bucky. 

“What—” Bucky says, huffing. It’s too dark to see his face, but Steve catches the gleam of his eyes as he peers at Steve over his shoulder.

“How many times I gotta tell you to shut up?” Steve says. “Hold still. You wanna cuddle, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says sullenly. He settles, body relaxing, and Steve tucks his legs into the bend of Bucky’s knees, crowding him a little as he wraps his arms around his waist. Bucky is warm and solid, comfortable to hold; Steve rests his forehead between his shoulders and lets out a deep, slow breath. 

For a minute or two, Steve thinks he’s won. Bucky is silent and still, heavy in his arms. Steve starts to drift, easing back into sleep, lulled by Bucky’s rhythmic breathing, and then— 

“Your knees are bony,” Bucky says, just loud enough to jerk Steve back into wakefulness. 

“If you want something, Bucky,” Steve says, deadly quiet, “_Just ask_.”

“I want your bony knees to stop sticking me like needles.” Bucky’s voice is practically petulant. 

“You’re free to move.”

Bucky doesn’t. He stays silent, too, breathing noisily. 

“No?” Steve goads him. “You want me to move you?”

“Like to see you try.” 

Oh, so it’s _that_ kind of game they’re playing. 

The moment crystallizes; Bucky doesn’t want to be coaxed or gentled, he wants to be forced. He’s hoping Steve will back up his threats with rough touches, but he’s not prepared to use his words and ask, fearful of being directly rebuffed. If Steve doesn’t want him right now, all he has to do is ignore the bait. 

Despite his fatigue and the lure of sleep, Steve’s officially interested. 

“I don’t need to move you,” Steve says. “You’re going to be good for me.”

Bucky makes a soft noise of vague disagreement. “Why?”

“Because you don’t know _what_ you want,” says Steve. Bucky’s bare skin is soft and warm as Steve skims a hand up his arm and over his shoulder, fingers curling loose around the base of his throat. “But I do.”

Bucky actually scoffs at him. “You don’t know everything, Steve. You just act like you do.”

“Maybe. But I know _you_.”

They’re pressed so closely together that Steve can feel Bucky shiver against him. He’s definitely on the right track. It gives him a thrill to know that this is working. Whatever mood he’s in, Steve’s confident he can handle him. 

“What do you know about me? What wisdom has Steven G. Rogers got to dispense at two in the goddamn morning, huh?” Bucky’s shoulders hunch up defensively, arms wrapped tight around his pillow. 

“Already told you,” Steve says shortly. “Shut your mouth. Be quiet and I’ll take care of you. What’s gotten into you, anyway?”

“Nothing,” mutters Bucky. “_Nothing’s_ gotten into me.”

Steve snorts as understanding dawns. “Is that so?”

“Aw, don’t be mean. Don’t laugh at me.”

“You like it when I’m mean.”

Another soft, whiny noise. In Steve’s arms, Bucky squirms in a very illuminating way. Steve’s hand travels back down Bucky’s body, over his chest and belly, tucking two fingers under the waistband of Bucky’s shorts to press against warm skin. When Steve dips his hand inside to curl around Bucky’s cock, plumping up hot with arousal, Bucky flinches. “_Fuck_, Steve. Cold hands, pal.”

“Well, you’re warming me up, aren’t you,” Steve says, using his other arm to prop himself up. “Least you can do, if you ask me. If you’re a good boy for me now, I’ll be more inclined to forgive you tomorrow when I’m dead on my feet.”

Bucky bites back what very clearly wants to be a moan. Steve tightens his grip obligingly, encouraging him to make another sound. He wants to drink in each and every one, greedily memorize all of Bucky’s sweet, bitten-off noises and keep them safe inside him. 

“Said I was sorry.” Bucky is breathless, now. In every other facet of their lives, Bucky is so hard to rile up, patient and slow to react. He’s cautious, careful, a consummate thinker. Here, though, in the quiet privacy of their bed, with Steve’s hand wrapped around his cock, he is responsive and needy. “Steve, c’mon, _please_.”

“Oh, so you do have manners?” Steve teases. “Too bad you don’t even know what you’re asking me for. Just talking for the sake of it, aren’t you?”

Bucky turns his head away, hiding his face in his pillow. It’s cute, that he’s finally trying to shut himself up. Steve only had to ask about a hundred times. Still. He deserves a reward. 

“Stay put,” says Steve, tugging his hand out of Bucky’s shorts. “Exactly like this. Don’t you move, now.”

Despite his earlier performance as a complete brat, Bucky doesn’t argue now, reduced to desperate sweetness. He does test the boundaries of Steve’s order, whining in protest and turning his head back to fix big, wet eyes on Steve. His pleading expression is just visible as Steve’s eyes adjust to the darkness. 

“Hey,” says Steve sharply, freezing in place. He pinches Bucky’s hip. “What part of ‘don’t move’ did you not understand?”

“Sorry,” Bucky gasps. 

“That’s funny. You don’t sound sorry at all.” Steve keeps his voice hard and his grip harder, finger and thumb digging into Bucky’s jaw as he gives his head a little shake, like he’s a naughty pet. Bucky’s cheeks are soft under the firm press of his fingers. He gives him one final squeeze and then lets go. “Go on.”

Bucky exhales heavily and slowly turns his head away from Steve. 

Steve takes his time rifling through their battered, second-hand nightstand to find the jar of vaseline, musing thoughtfully as he searches. Does he want to put Bucky on his hands and knees? Or leave him on his side? If he’s on his back, Steve can look him in the face.

There's a lot of junk in this drawer. Pencils, crumpled paper, a sewing kit, a spool of twine, a pair of socks… He has to really dig through it, feeling everything out, squinting into the dim light. Steve whistles cheerfully, feigning unhurried patience just to make Bucky squirm. It’s a test of his own composure to maintain this charade. What Steve _wants_ to do is grab Bucky by the back of the neck and shove him face first into the bed. He wants to pin him down and force him open, he wants to make him _cry_. 

Restraint will be worth it, though.

"Aha," he murmurs softly, surfacing the jar after an artificially prolonged search. "There we go.” 

“Steve,” Bucky whispers. “Steve, baby, _please_.”

“You’re testing the limited bounds of my patience every time you open that smart mouth,” Steve says mildly. “I’m about ready to gag you. Is that what you want?”

Bucky groans. Steve half-expects him to lift his head and peek over his shoulder again, but apparently his self control hasn’t frayed that severely. He stays put, trembling, while Steve settles back down at his side, leaning into him and balancing his elbow on Bucky’s hip. He unscrews the lid of the jar and dips his fingers into the slick, humming softly. 

“Now you’re just teasing,” says Bucky, his voice thready. 

Steve lets out an exaggerated sigh. He sets down the vaseline and wipes his hands clean on the bedclothes. When he rolls Bucky onto his back with a firm shove, Bucky sucks in a sharp breath and lets him.

"You're teasing _yourself_," Steve says flatly, straddling Bucky’s hips and settling over his lap. "You keep flapping your gums. Can't even help it, can you?"

"You're one to talk," mutters Bucky. “Always getting yourself punched in the fa—”

Steve clamps his hand over Bucky’s mouth. “Hush, now,” he says quietly. “You’re all wound up.”

Bucky whines softly and blinks up at him, his eyes bright in the darkness. He is perfectly, obediently still, and Steve is flooded with warmth. “Good,” he says. “Good boy. Can you stay quiet like this for me?”

There is hesitation in Bucky’s face, illuminated faintly by the thin strip of moonlight that filters in through the tiny window; he makes a pitiful noise. 

“No?” Steve presses his fingertips into Bucky’s jaw and tucks his thumb against his cheek, holding his mouth firmly shut. “You can’t? Are you telling me that if I let go, you can’t be trusted to stay quiet on your own?”

There’s a brief pause and then the tiniest shake of Bucky’s head. With those wide eyes, his helpless expression is entirely affected. Bucky knows exactly what he looks like. He knows that it gets to Steve in different ways, making him just as likely to kiss Bucky as he is to smack him.

“I can’t fuck you and hold your mouth shut at the same time,” says Steve. “You understand that? You’re asking me for help, which means I gotta stuff something in that big mouth of yours. Okay?”

Bucky nods against Steve’s hand and mumbles an affirmation.

Steve sighs feelingly. “You’re a lot of work, you know that? You make me so _tired_.” He gives him another shake and releases his mouth. “I’m tempted to gag you with your own underwear.”

“You wouldn’t,” rasps Bucky. 

“No?” says Steve. He plants his hand on Bucky’s chest to balance himself as he leans back over to the bedside table. A pair of clean socks, maybe. “You’d deserve it. Would you stop me?”

There’s a long pause, laden with meaning. “No,” Bucky says in a barely-there voice. 

“Exactly.” Steve fishes out a neatly-rolled pair of socks, pressing his nose to them and breathing in the clean scent of detergent. “Here we go. Clean socks for a dirty mouth.”

“_You’re_ the one with the—”

Steve shoves the socks into Bucky’s mouth, cutting him off with a muffled grunt. Cupping Bucky’s jaw in his hands, he uses both thumbs to tuck the material in behind his teeth. The balled up socks make his cheeks bulge, and Bucky groans when Steve squeezes at them playfully. 

“That’s so much better,” says Steve. “You look cuter, too.”

There’s a plaintive tug at the waistband of Steve’s underwear. He catches Bucky’s wandering hand by the wrist and moves it back to the mattress with a gentle press. Perched over Bucky like this, pinning him down and moving him how he likes, Steve coasts on a surge of power so forceful it’s almost dizzying. Bucky is taller and heavier than him, broad where Steve is slight and narrow. He could flip them easily, push Steve off, but instead he’s gone docile under his hands, breathing softly through his nose. 

“You don’t give it up to just anyone, do you,” Steve says pleasantly, dragging two fingers down Bucky’s belly. “Not like this.” Bucky’s shorts are tented over his erection. Steve palms him through the thin fabric, rubbing his thumb into the wet patch covering the straining head of his cock. 

Bucky’s hips jerk, jostling Steve a little. There’s a desperate sound caught in his throat, stifled by the gag, and he clutches tightly at the rumpled sheets. 

“You’re real pretty like this, Buck,” Steve says, voice low. Bucky shudders, the muscles of his stomach twitching. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? Look at you. Vain little thing.” 

That draws a whimper out of Bucky. As much as Steve would like to sit here and tease him all night, pinch and poke and torment, his own arousal is becoming much harder to ignore. He gives Bucky’s cock a hard squeeze. “Don’t move,” he warns, getting to his feet with a creak of his knees. 

Bucky huffs noisily, peering up at Steve as he strips off his shirt and shorts and tosses them into the hamper. He takes a moment to stretch his back, his spine popping, and doesn’t warn Bucky as he grabs a match and lights the candle that sits on the bedside table. 

He gets a quick look at Bucky’s eyes, pupils blown wide in the semi-darkness, before he turns his face away and squeezes them shut with an annoyed noise. Steve waves the match out and sets it aside. 

“Quit complaining,” says Steve. “Got tired of not being able to see you properly. Don’t you want me to admire your handsome face?”

Bucky just grunts, head turned stubbornly away. 

When Steve kneels back down next to Bucky, he reaches out and takes him by the chin. “Look at me, Buck.”

Bucky opens his eyes just a little, squinting theatrically at Steve. There’s a fine sheen of sweat at his hairline, damp curls stuck to his skin. He’s flushed and panting, cheeks endearingly pink. He shouldn’t look so embarrassed when he’s this gorgeous, fucked out before he’s even properly fucked. 

“That’s it,” praises Steve, tipping his chin up to look at him closely. “Perfect. Aren’t you sweet?”

The response is exactly what he wants; Bucky _preens_, puffing out his chest and blinking up at Steve with big, innocent eyes. The muffled noise he makes is unbearably cute. Steve cups his jaw in one hand, pressing his thumb into Bucky’s full cheek. 

“I like _this_ look in particular,” Steve continues cheerfully. “‘Gagged and silent’ really suits you, Buck.”

Bucky’s expression slips from guileless to plaintive. His huff comes from his chest. 

“Don’t give me that,” says Steve, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Bucky’s underwear and dragging them down his hips. Bucky whines when his cock bobs free, flushed hard between his thighs. He’s leaking a little, precome beading at the head. 

“You’re no help at all,” he chides, tugging Bucky’s shorts past his knees and down his calves, tossing them carelessly onto the floor when he pulls them free of Bucky’s long legs. “Is that brain of yours even working, or are you just thinking with this?” He taps the tip of Bucky’s cock.

“Mmm!” complains Bucky, squirming under Steve’s hands. His face is getting redder and redder. 

Steve chuckles softly. “Yeah. I know. You don’t need to _think_ at all. You just need to spread your legs for me, sweetheart.” He doesn’t even need to ask nicely. Bucky’s strong thighs hitch around Steve’s hips, drawing him in tight between Bucky’s legs. It’s a very demanding gesture, though, and Steve puts a hand on Bucky’s knee and squeezes firmly.

“Don’t get greedy on me,” he warns. “You’ll get what you’re given, Buck. Is that still okay?”

Bucky nods furiously, making an agreeable noise. 

“And if you need me to stop, just spit that out, or snap your fingers for me. Got that?”

“_Mmhmm_,” hums Bucky, nodding again with definite impatience this time. Steve narrows his eyes as he retrieves the vaseline and slicks up his fingers. 

Bucky’s a flustered mess, bare chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths; the candlelight casts him in deep shadows, the kind Steve would like to sketch out with charcoal if he didn’t already have his hands full with making good on his word. Maybe later. He can hold an image this appealing in his mind for a more appropriate time. For now, though, he tucks one hand under Bucky’s thigh, folding his knee up, and rubs two slick fingers over Bucky’s hole. 

It gets Steve a thick moan in response, Bucky’s hips bowing up into the firm touch. 

“Easy,” murmurs Steve. “I know, I know. Did you think I’d give in easily? That you’d get to rub one out, drunk and happy, and then go right to sleep? You woke me up and now I’m _up_, pal.” He rubs the pad of his finger in little circles against Bucky’s tight rim, trying to soothe the anticipatory tension out of him. Bucky shudders, whimpering. 

It’s always such a rush, watching Bucky come apart on his fingers. He enjoys himself so vocally—gets lost so deeply in his reactions—that Steve wants to devour his pleasure, take it right inside his own body for warmth and tuck it between his ribs for safekeeping. 

“Hell, Buck,” murmurs Steve, hazy with arousal and a swell of possessive hunger. “You make me want to just—” He turns his head, biting at the tender skin of Bucky’s inner thigh. 

Bucky’s sharp cry is half-swallowed by the gag in his mouth. His flushed cock twitches with the reflexive jolt of his hips, spurting out little pearls of precome. The movement of his body buries Steve’s finger inside him up to the first knuckle. The hot, tight grip of Bucky’s hole around even just his fingertip ignites desire in Steve so hot he is briefly overwhelmed. 

He sinks in so easily when he pushes deeper; Bucky lets out a sigh, relaxing around the plunge of Steve’s curled finger.

“That’s it,” he says, stroking into Bucky softly. “You’re being so good for me. I knew you could be. Look at me?”

Bucky cries out, body jerking into the intimate press of Steve’s finger. His flush creeps down his throat, staining his chest, the light of the candle flickering across gleaming skin. Heavy-lidded, he opens eyes that are hazy with arousal. 

“You want more?” asks Steve, working his finger in and out of Bucky’s body. 

Bucky nods helplessly, eyes widening. He makes a pleading sound. Every inch of him is begging wordlessly for more in the tremble of his thighs and the tension holding him in place for Steve’s focused attention. 

“What, this isn’t enough?” Bucky’s face falls. “No?” Steve laughs, but he obliges Bucky anyway, spreading him open on another finger. 

The thing is, Steve wouldn’t describe himself as a patient person. Nobody would. As much as he enjoys Bucky’s agonized reactions to being teased, he is reaching his own limit for foreplay. There’s no point in teasing _himself_. 

“Okay,” he soothes, grasping Bucky’s cock with his other hand. Bucky arches and gasps, a shiver rippling through him, and then he relaxes so sweetly into the pressure, body coaxed open around Steve. He’s so hot inside, so _tight_; Steve twists his wrist, pulling out just enough to tuck in a third finger, eager for more. “Okay, I know, I know, you can take it, hm? Here you go—” 

Each thrust has Bucky drawing up his legs and rolling his hips onto Steve’s hand. He’s making muted noises, hard cock nestled against his belly. 

Awe bubbles up in Steve’s chest at the sight of him, spread out in their bed in debauched bliss. All his easy-going charm is silenced, handsome image deconstructed into its composite parts: a damp brow, stuck with dark loose curls; warm blotchy skin and freckled shoulders; wide grey eyes glazed over with desire; tears trickling down his cheeks to gather at the corner of his quivering lips.

“You are so beautiful,” Steve says roughly. “You know that, don’t you? You know just how much you turn heads. When you smile, Buck—”

The sound Bucky makes is very small and almost wounded. He covers his face with his hands, grinding onto the three fingers Steve is plunging inside him with reckless abandon. 

“When you smile, you’re the brightest thing in the room.” Steve takes in a deep, shaky breath, overcome. If he thinks about the deep well of _love_ inside him for too long, he’ll get swept away in it. He’s spent entire afternoons just watching Bucky in various states of being, various states of _undress_, that long lean body bared just for him. He’s seen him slumped in exhausted and bundled warmly or stripped down to nothing, smooth skin alternately pebbled with goosebumps or gleaming with sweat. He’s captured it in charcoal and paint, traced spine and shoulders with tongue and teeth and smudged fingers. 

This, though, is his favorite. 

Bucky silky-hot and open on Steve’s hand, attention devoted fully to Steve in raw wonder, while the delicate thrum of his pulse beats against where Steve’s tucked his hand into the crease of his thigh. 

Crooking his fingers, Steve strokes in deep and rubs at Bucky’s prostate with more intention than he’s bothered with so far. Bucky cries out immediately, hips arching up off the bed. His ragged breaths are loud in the small space. When Steve slowly drags his fingers free, it pulls a bereft whine out of Bucky. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” says Steve, laughing when he catches sight of the puppy eyes Bucky’s giving him through his hands. “You don’t want just my fingers, do you?”

Steve kneels up between Bucky’s thighs to slick up his cock. He’s been ignoring his own need while concentrating instead on breaking Bucky down, but he’s ready now. There’s arousal lighting up the length of his spine and flooding his body with burgeoning pleasure. Tipping his head back, Steve watches Bucky through his lashes while he tugs slowly at his dick, lip caught between his teeth.

Bucky huffs again, nudging at Steve’s hip with his calf. 

“Brat,” says Steve, curling his mouth into an obvious smirk. “I’ve barely touched myself all night, but the second I take my hands off you…”

Bucky has a point, though. He’s had enough of this leisurely game. He _wants_ so badly that it settles under his skin like the tender itch of a bruise and Steve grips his cock by the base as he guides himself between the wanton spread of Bucky’s legs. There’s a twinge in the small of Steve’s back already; coupled with the inevitable lack of sleep, he’s going to be grumpy the next day. 

“I can’t decide if this is you making it up to me, or if you’ll still owe me tomorrow for how I know I’m gonna feel.” Steve curls his free hand under Bucky’s right knee, folding him back up as he presses in, head of his cock nudging at Bucky’s rim. He holds his breath, using his weight to sink into Bucky inch by inch. 

They both groan. Bucky bears down and clenches tightly around him, sending up sparks behind Steve’s closed eyelids. It takes him a moment to even collect himself enough to breathe again, stunned stupid by the pleasure coiled hot at his core. 

“Oh,” he gasps, clutching at Bucky’s hips with cold fingertips. He blinks sweat out of his eyes. “_Oh_, you feel good. You feel so good, Bucky.”

“Unh,” mumbles Bucky. His head has tipped back into the rumpled bedclothes, exposing his throat and the nervous bob of his adam’s apple. This display of deliberate submission hits Steve right in the gut, rooting him to the spot as he bottoms out, hips flush with the curve of Bucky’s ass.

For a moment, they’re both still, frozen in a coital tableau that wouldn’t be out of place in an erotic renaissance painting. Even the lighting is perfect as the candle burns down, the guttering flame casting them in warm peach light set with deep shadows. 

Steve is panting, hands braced up on Bucky’s wide-open knees, nerves fizzling with adrenaline. Somehow, he finds the strength to _move_, rolling his hips into welcoming heat. Every time he fucks into Bucky, he’s rewarded with a high, smothered sound. 

“This is what you wanted, right?” Steve says breathlessly. He’s the kind of punch-drunk that being repeatedly socked in the jaw can’t even replicate, his pulse throbbing as blood rushes in his ears. He oughta be flat on his back on the floor, staring dizzily up at the ceiling as the world spins around him, but instead, Bucky tucks his knees into Steve’s hips and slams his body back onto his cock like he’ll slingshot off the face of the earth if they don’t stay connected. “When you woke me up, is this what you hoped for?”

They’re all questions Bucky wouldn’t answer even if he could. He’s not looking at Steve, too busy concentrating on taking his pleasure to listen to what he’s saying. Back arched up from the bed, belly taut. It’s a genuine strain for Steve to maintain this rhythm, punishing them both for sins real and imagined in the narrative of this semi-hypothetical game. 

“Don’t,” warns Steve, when Bucky reaches down to touch himself. 

Bucky doesn’t make a sound in protest, but his eyes widen, errant tears spilling over. A picture of exaggerated misery. Steve’s imagination will hold onto this and run away with it later, when he has the time to wallow in every relaxed line and overexposed highlight. He could fill sketchbooks with the moue of Bucky’s mouth, entire galleries dedicated to capturing the cut of his jaw and the soft give of his chin.

“I mean it. Don’t make me tie you up, too.” Thighs burning, Steve braces one hand on Bucky’s shoulder and puts the other on his hip, giving himself leverage for the demanding rock of his hips. The change in angle rips a cry from Bucky’s chest, his entire body seizing like Steve just completed a circuit. “Oh,” gasps Steve. “Yeah? There?”

Bucky’s desperate affirmation is clear even through the gag. Forbidden from touching himself, Bucky buries his hands in his own hair, fucking himself onto the deep plunge of Steve’s cock. 

“Good boy,” Steve says, on the cusp of his own climax. “You look so pretty like this, Buck. So handsome. You’re being such a good boy for me. You want my hand or my mouth to help you come?”

Bucky _whines_, tossing his head. Words are impossible like this. The embarrassment of being unintelligible—of being _misunderstood_—melts into pliant surrender without resignation. The choice to trust that Steve will make the correct decision for him is freely made because Bucky is safe to make it. 

“Don’t be silly, right?” Steve laughs, sweat cooling on his skin in the drafty chill. He shivers, enveloped in Bucky, gripped by velvet pressure. "I'm getting my fill, first."

It’s a shock, each time. The conscious realization that Steve’s actually tucked _inside_ the hot, tender core of him. 

Bucky isn't a phony, but the version of himself he carries outside of these walls is carefully constructed to shield all his soft spots from the rest of the world while simultaneously baring them unselfconsciously to Steve. He's never been shy about it, or if he was, Steve doesn't remember what it was like before; Bucky never presents him with anything less than his whole self, and Steve’s perfectly aware that it’s the kind of gift you cherish. 

While Steve hides his vulnerabilities under the cloak of his anger, Bucky's sit on the surface if you know where to look, and when Bucky collapses under the weight of his own fearful caution, it’s Steve that’s entrusted with the aftermath.

Bucky's really lost to it, now, increasingly vocal as Steve's hard strokes coax muffled little _ah, ah, ah_s out of him, finding the sweet spot that unravels his tightly-wound spool of Bucky’s composure.

"Can't stay quiet, even like this," Steve chides him, but it comes out so fond he's momentarily staggered by the emotion in his own voice. "You got any idea what you do to me? Rattle my nerves, drive me to distraction, ‘til I'm so mad that you even exist I just gotta have you. Sometimes I feel like I'm going outta my damn mind." 

Steve talks and talks and Bucky can't answer, but his comebacks zing right up Steve's spine anyway. Shocks of pleasure, minute shifts in muscle and bone, the feverish heat of his skin. 

Steve comes first, like the sharp snap of a rubber band when it breaks. It's so good it makes him dizzy, pleasure flaring bright at the base of his belly and radiating out into his limbs until he's jelly-legged and trembling. 

"Oh, Buck," mumbles Steve. He grinds his hips in just a little, chasing the aftershocks of his orgasm, and gasps at the raw burst of overstimulation that threatens to blind him.

He's clumsy when he fumbles at Bucky's cock, but Bucky doesn't seem to care, arching up into his grip and letting out a relieved sob. 

Steve's got him in hand. Steve's got him. 

It doesn't take much, after all, when Steve's been teasing him this long. Bucky doesn't take much. He just needs a bit of coaxing, some soft words, with Steve's long fingers tight around him, and then he comes, too. 

"Good boy," croons Steve, milking every last bit of pleasure out of Bucky’s straining body. "Hey, there you go. I got you, honey."

They've already made a mess, so Steve wipes his hand off on the sheets, ignoring Bucky's sleepy grumble. 

"Lay off," he says, easing out of Bucky with a groan. He's sore, now, joints popping as he curls up at Bucky's back. "We already had to do laundry anyway."

Bucky mumbles something around the fabric still stuffed in his mouth. 

"Dummy," hisses Steve, pinching his shoulder. 

Bucky squawks and slaps clumsily at Steve's hand. 

Steve catches his wrists and slides his other hand up over Bucky's throat to hold his jaw. Predictably, Bucky goes still, eyelids fluttering. His moan is too quiet for Steve to hear, but he feels it against the palm of his hand. 

"You're so easy," Steve says softly. "C'mon. Give it up." He tugs the balled up socks out of Bucky's unresisting mouth, then pats him firmly on the cheek. "Good?" He throws the socks into a shadow that might be the hamper. 

Bucky grunts. He licks his lips and works his jaw, body unfolding in a leisurely stretch. "Perfect."

"You should drink some water."

"Ain’t gettin’ up."

"Bucky."

"_Steve_."

"You're a brat." Steve huffs and pinches him again. 

Bucky squirms half-heartedly. "Get me some, then." 

"Guess I will." 

Steve needs a stretch anyway. His knees protest as he rises and he shivers in the encroaching chill, missing the immediate heat of Bucky's body. 

When he comes back with water, Bucky has rolled over and is waiting for him, chin propped up on his hand. 

"What are you staring at?" Steve demands, flopping back down and holding out the glass. 

"Your skinny little chicken legs," says Bucky. He sips slowly at the water. He's losing the foggy look of a condensed mirror. "What else?"

“And here everyone thinks you’re so polite,” says Steve. “But I know better. Go on, then. Drink. Don’t just look at it.”

“I’m _drinking_.” Bucky takes a pointed gulp, head tilted back to show Steve he’s swallowing, and a droplet of water trickles down the vulnerable length of his throat. When he’s finished, he sets the glass on the floor. “Coulda brought a washcloth, too.”

“Too late for that,” says Steve, sliding in behind him, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s waist. They rustle around, the ritual of getting comfortable and settled. 

“Sorry I woke you,” mumbles Bucky, when they’re both still. 

_I’m not,_ Steve thinks. “You will be tomorrow,” he jokes instead. “Now hush. I’m serious.”

Beside the bed, the candle goes out.


End file.
